


Private Dance

by missbeizy



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2768219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's still the dance to perform and so we do, telling jokes and whispering sly comments about this and that crew person to keep the grins and giggles on our faces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Dance

If there was ever any doubt of how much I love you, just watch us dance. This is the floor for you and I; flushed with cold and exhausted at a quarter to one in the morning. The camera bulbs are our cues, and the press are our choreographers, calling our names like they know us. They think they do. You smell like leather and cloves and I know we've got at least a few days of publicity ahead of us. Knowing I'll be waking up with you the next few mornings tempts me to sleep more successfully than the tiredness in my bones does. 

But we aren't there yet. 

There's still the dance to perform and so we do, telling jokes and whispering sly comments about this and that crew person to keep the grins and giggles on our faces. We've always owned some of this, even if just a second of it was kept sacred between us. I always look at you _that way_ , the way I'm not necessarily supposed to, with a pure blend of adoring love and absolute transfixion. 

They yell for a hug, _let's see some hobbit love_ , and you take several steps back and bump deliberately into me. You turn your head, grinning, eyebrows up, and my arms itch and my hands clench with the desire to come up and hold you, but I just lean into your freezing leather jacket and catch the corner of your eye, letting my gaze dance over the pale pink and cream of your face. You can't see my eyes, really, so I let them get soft, the exact sort of soft that makes you uncomfortable in that happy, watched way, that usually, when we're alone, makes you break down in nervous giggles and tell me to stop. 

(Not that you mean it.) 

I mumble something funny and you crack up, turning your back to the cameras and snaking a hand up the front of my jacket, letting it stall over my collarbone. You bury your cold cheek against mine and push your face near my ear and my hands twitch again, hovering stupidly at my sides. 

You're a lot braver than I am. 

I've always wondered what would happen if I took the dance a step farther. If I started an encore, what would you do? What would the cameras do? Would they change their eternal observance to accommodate us? Would they turn elsewhere, seeking a new vision of lines crossed somewhere else? In the end, do I even care what the flashing lights and bawdy cat calls mean to the way you and I move? Is there such a thing as a dance of our own anymore? 

For the first time since we stepped out, your eyes meet mine. There's nothing new there; all I see is all I've ever seen. And you know that if I could speak without words, I'd tell you that that's all I've ever wanted to find there. What it is, is all you are, and through the changing trends and alterations in rhythm they've demanded, our private dance has never changed.


End file.
